Aftermath
by SHansen
Summary: A terrible thought enters, but John pushes it aside. "What's going on?" "An apology". Reichenbach and the aftermath.
1. The Day the World Stopped

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own BBC Sherlock - obviously. But I have borrowed a lot of dialogue, as you will see.

_**Warnings:**_ Mild language, (apparant) suicide/character death.

...

**Aftermath**

1. THE DAY THE WORLD STOPPED

_"Stop there!"_

John obeys, confused at the urgent tone of voice. "Sherlock..."

_"Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop"_.

He turns his head in that direction, and his eyes widen. Sherlock is standing on the edge of the roof.

"Oh, God". What's going on?

_"I-I.. I can't come down, so w-we'll just have to do it like this"_.

Do what? In the midst of his confustion a terrible thought enters, but John pushes it aside.

"What's going on?"

_"An apology"_. Pause. _"It's all true"_.

"What?!"

_"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty"_.

John's mind freezes, and his heart rate picks up.

"Why are you saying this?"

The voice down the line breaks. _"I'm a fake!"_

John stares in disbelief at the figure of his friend on the rooftop.

"Sherlock..."

_"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson. And Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you - that I created Moriarty for my own purposes"_.

No! John is getting angry. Desparate. He has to find a way to get through to him.

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, the _first time _we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"

_"Nobody could be that clever"_.

John's reply comes immediately: "You could".

A short, strained laugh comes from the other end of the line. John holds his breath in anticipation. Please just come down, Sherlock!

His heart drops at the next words.

_"I researched you"_.

Angrily, John clenches his teeth, blood rushing through his veins.

_"Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick, just a magic trick"_.

This has to stop!

"No, alright, stop it now!"

Sherlock is too far away. John has to get through to him! He starts walking...

_"No, stay exactly where you are!"_

Stops.

_"Don't move!"_

"Alright".

John can hear Sherlock heave for breath. His voice is urgent, and it's sending John's brain into turmoil.

_"Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?"._

"Do what?"

In the back of his mind, the thought from before is again creeping up on John. A vile, threatening thought.

_"This phone call, it's... it's my note"._

All air seems to have left John's lungs. This isn't happening...

_"That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note"._

Panic sets in.

"Leave a note, when?"

Terror grips him.

Time seems to stand still.

Then, the words that tear apart his last shred of hope:

_"Goodbye, John"._

No!

"No. Don't".

Every nerve in his body is on edge. His eyes watch Sherlock intensively, never leaving him.

Sherlock's figure stirs.

A crashing noise sounds through the phone, then a beep.

John lets his arm fall.

"No - SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock lifts his arms and leans forward.

John's heart stops. Cold dread washes over him.

"Sher -". His voice falters.

A few terrible moments of seeing him fall, then John hears the sickening sound of impact behind a building.

For a moment he stands frozen on the spot, and the world stops. Then his legs move, carrying him towards Sherlock. He needs to see his friend. But when he does, his heart sinks further. There, ahead of him, on the pavement Sherlock lies, unmoving.

Something hits John hard, and he falls heavily to the ground, momentarily stripping him of the consciousness of what just happened. It hurts. His head is spinning, but he gets back up, disoriented. His eyes catch the horrible sight again. "Sher - Sherl...". Choking up, he runs forward, stumbling, until he reaches the nurses and onlookers standing in the way. Crowded around a lifeless body.

"I'm a doctor, let me come through". John weakly pushes his way through the crowd. "No, he's my friend. He's my friend, please". His throat is burning, tears sting his eyes. He pushes through. Then reaches down to find out what he already knows.

No pulse.

His body slumps to the ground. Someone rolls over Sherlock's body, and his lifeless eyes stare into nothingness. Only then John registers all the blood, in a pool flowing from Sherlock's head.

"Jesus, no. God, no".

It's over.

Sherlock is gone.

...

The paramedics take his body away. Someone supports John and helps him to his feet. Slowly he pulls away. Then they leave. John stands there, panting. His mind is a fog. His senses are dulled. He moves in a blur, but the world around him stands still.

...

Sirens wail, and two police cars pull up. Footsteps approach in a hurry. John barely registers.

"John". Greg. The DI reaches him and puts a hand on John's arm.

John pulls back, without saying a word. He doesn't even look at Greg. Absentmindedly, he turns and walks away.

"John!"

...

He walks blindly around the city for hours, without purpose. Suddenly he registers how dark it is, and a light drizzle is falling from the sky. Sighing, he hauls a cab and gets in.

"Where to, mate?"

Something triggers in John's mind. The empty look on his face is replaced by one of pain.

"2..." The words won't escape him.

"What was that?" the cabbie asks.

Out of nowhere, an image flashes through John's mind - _"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221b Baker Street"._

John practically falls out of the cab, gasping for air. Tears well up in his eyes, and he gets on his feet and starts running.

...

Outside 221b, John finally slows down and heaves for breath. Trying not to think about what's awaiting him upstairs, he reaches for the door handle. Then a thought hits him. Mrs. Hudson! She doesn't know. Unless... of course. Hours have passed. The police will have already been here.

Exhausted and anxious, he opens the door. Barely inside, he hears sobbing float out from the kitchen, and then from the same direction heavy footsteps approach. Greg turns up, his expression like nothing John has ever seen on him before. His face drawn in grief, his clothes a wrinkled mess. He looks fifteen years older than usual.

"Thank God you're here". Greg's voice is low and tired. "Mrs. Hudson and I were worried. I wanted to call you, but..." He seems to try to say something more, but then just hangs his head, hands on his hips. John just looks at him, his own grief evident in every feature. Mrs. Hudson's quiet sobs wake him up, and he heads past Greg into the kitchen. Greg follows slowly behind.

The older lady is sitting on a chair, elbows on the table, and face resting in her hands. As John comes in, she looks up. "John", she chokes, and tears flow down her cheeks, as she gets up and quickly covers the distance between them. Her arms wrap him in a tight embrace. Hesitating, he slowly does the same. No tears come.

Greg shifts his glance between them and the floor. When John catches his gaze, Greg moves slowly out into the hallway. John pats Mrs. Hudson's back. "I'll just be a moment", he whispers before following after Greg.

Clearly Greg does not know what to say. Or how to say it. He clears his throat, but the words still come out thick and strained. "I'm sorry, John". He looks down. Whether he's sorry that John lost his best friend, or that Greg had Sherlock arrested, or both, John does not know. At this moment he doesn't care. He gives a short nod and is about to turn around, when Greg continues, "We found Moriarty". John freezes and looks intently at the man. "On the rooftop of St. Bart's". Greg pauses. "He's dead. Shot himself". This makes John's head reel again. He can't make sense of what he's hearing. "But - was he up there with -". He can't bring himself to say the name. "Apparently so", Greg simply states.

John stays up long after Greg has left and Mrs. Hudson has turned in. She was still crying, and John's tears still won't come. Neither will sleep. His heart is pounding. There's not a clear thought in his head, just a whirl of foggy impressions. He sits in the kitchen for hours, until finally being so tired that he drifts off to sleep, arms and head resting on the coffee table.

...

_**Author's Notes: **_I know - this is horribly sad, but that's the point, isn't it?!  
The next chapter will be up in a few days. I will deal with the next couple of days in John's life.  
This story is more or less a prologue to the other story I'm writing, "He's Gone", which deals with the time up until and including the reunion. The first few chapters for that fic are posted. For those of you following "He's Gone": My apologies to keep you waiting. I got tangled up in the immediate hours and days following Sherlock's "death".  
Please do leave constructive criticism, as I want to improve my writing!


	2. Yesterday

**Aftermath**

2. YESTERDAY

The first thing he notices in the morning is how much his back hurts, and that his right arm is asleep. His eyes flutter open to find that he is in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. Then he remembers why. A lump settles in his throat, and his eyes water, but the tears don't flow. Everything is quiet, so Mrs. Hudson is still asleep. John looks at his watch. 7:03. How long had he slept? He is still exhausted and drowsy.

That day he walks around half as in a fog. A few people come and go, others call on the phone. Mike. Harry. Sympathy calls. Bloody reporters crowd up on Baker Street. Greg stops by again, filling John in on what's going on in the investigation of - the incident. Moriarty - or rather Rich Brook, according to the police - had killed himself, unknown circumstances. And Sherlock - well, the majority of the police force is buying into the story that he is a fraud, and that this Rich Brook fellow revealed him, so he snapped. It's still being investigated, though.

John just sits there, brow deeply furrowed, eyes staring into nothingsness as he takes it all in. He hears Greg clear his throat. "John". Slowly John lifts his head. Greg continues: "I need to ask you a few questions about yesterday". _Yesterday_. A phone call. Sherlock's urgent, pleading voice. A lie told him by his best friend! The word releases a flow of memories. And then... _God, no! _John shuts his eyes tight, trying to erase the image; _that _image. Again he hears Greg clear his throat. "We can wait until tomorrow, if you prefer". For a moment John considers while breathing heavily and trying to calm himself. No, he doesn't want to have to go through this again tomorrow, walking around in dread at the thought of the upcoming conversation. Better to get it over with. John shakes his head and opens his eyes. Greg seems to get his meaning.

"After you both got away from us... where did you and Sherlock go to?" John slowly fills him in on the events leading up to Sherlock's phone call, but it's hard to concentrate. Greg occasionally interrupts to have John elaborate on a piece of information. What evidence did Moriarty have that he was Rich Brook? Did Sherlock tell John where he had been after leaving Kitty Reiley's place? Did he find the computer key code?

Remembering hurts. He has to put all his will power into focusing on the task at hand: Honour Sherlock, and clear his name.

"Did - did Sherlock mention Moriarty when he was on the phone with you?" A shot of pain runs through him, and he looks at Greg with uncertainty. This part he does not want to repeat. "He said..." John swallows. "He said: I invented Moriarty". He studies Greg for a moment, weighing the consequences of those words. "Then what happened?" "He said that... he told me that the newspapers were right, and that he was a - " He can't say the word. Quietly, Greg asks, "A - what?" Shutting his eyes again, John lets out the word between clenched teeth: "A _fake_!" _Damn you, Sherlock!_ He looks up to find Greg's sympathetic gaze. It's annoying. He doesn't want sympathy, he wants for Greg to understand that Sherlock was _lying_!

"Why do you suppose he said that?" John can hear the doubt in Greg's voice. "I don't know" John answers, the word ringing in his head. _Why? Why, Sherlock?_ He looks intently at Greg. "We've seen him deduce everything and everyone, and there is _no way_ he could have _researched_ all those situations, those people, in advance just to convince us..." John's voice breaks, and he looks down momentarily. When he lifts his head again, Greg appears to be deep in thought. "What else did he say?" _"I want you to tell Lestrade..." No!_ Not that. A battle is raging in John's mind. What would Greg believe? Finally, he decides on the truth, hoping that Greg will use it to somehow find out why Sherlock was lying. "He told me to tell you that he created Moriarty... that he hired him as an actor". He quickly continues, "But there was no acting". John goes on, telling Greg about the day that he and Sherlock were at the swimming pool. He doesn't know if he is getting through, though.

"Okay", Greg wraps up. "I - I think that's enough for today. I'll contact you again later". John sees Greg get up, but remains seated. A hand is placed gently on his shoulder, and he looks up. "I - I'm sorry, John". Greg's voice is little more than a whisper, his expression sincere. "There's more to this than what people believe, and I will get to the bottom of it. I will". John looks down, tears welling up, fighting them away. It's useless. Greg's promise holds just a little hope in the world that yesterday became so full of despair. He buries his head in his hands, sobbing almost soundlessly. There's a gentle squeeze on his left shoulder, then the sound of footsteps gradually diminishing, a door opens and closes. He sits there for minutes, letting the hurt wash over him.

...

Greg keeps his promise, investigating Sherlock's death, keeping John informed of any new discovery, however little, occasionally asking more questions. Arrangements are made for the funeral. John goes back to work. Comes home to an empty flat. Listens to the silence. When the silence becomes too much, he goes for a walk.

In many ways, his life now reminds him of when he got back from Afghanistan, before he met Sherlock. Dull. Meaningless. Lonely. The hole in his heart, left there from the war, had been so completely filled by his friendship and partnership with Sherlock. More than filled. Now the hole is bigger than ever.

...

Everyone tries to be there for John. Mrs. Hudson invites him for tea. Mike takes him out for a drink. Greg stops by. Sometimes the distraction is welcome. The evenings are long and lonely. Other times they all just try too hard. But then again, so does he. Tries to move on. Tries to be okay.

This is why one day he finds himself in his therapist's office. 18 months after his last appointment. She won't ask him if he's doing okay, and she will let him sit quietly for a long time, and the silence won't feel tense.

When she asks him about his regrets - stuff he wishes he had said - he can't bring himself to say it. Those words were meant for Sherlock, and he can't just say them to a stranger. Not to anyone.

Yet at the gravestone that holds the name of his friend, he speaks the words that he wishes he had told him in person:

"You told me once... that you weren't a hero. There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: You were... the best man... and the most human... human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so... _there!_" He draws a ragged breath and walks up to the gravestone. The slightest touch makes him feel somewhat connected to his friend again. "I was... so alone... and I owe you so much". _I miss you. _His voice is filled with emotion. Tears well up in his eyes. He starts walking away. _You can't just be gone... you can't - _Rapidly, he turns. "Please, there's just one more thing; one more miracle, Sherlock, for me: Don't... be... dead!" His voice breaks. "Just stop it, stop this". He looks pointedly at Sherlock's name. The gravestone stares back silently. Hanging his head, John lets out a deep sigh. His shoulders shake as he lets himself sob for a moment. But no longer than a moment. He lets out a heavy breath. Determined, he straightens his back and gives a short nod. _There._ He doesn't linger. He turns on his heel and walks away in a military manner.

The pain will go on, but so must his life... somehow.

...

_**Author's Notes: **_There will be one more chapter, with some of the Reichenbach events seen from Sherlock's POV. I continue John's and Sherlock's stories in one of my other published fanfics, "He is gone", for which I am currently writing the fifth chapter.

As always, please review!


	3. The Note

**Aftermath**

3. THE NOTE

_**The previous events...**_

_"The press will turn, Sherlock; they always turn, and they'll turn on you"._

_"Just try to keep a low profile. Find yourself a little case this week. Stay out of the news"._

Unfortunately, Jim Moriarty had other plans.

Sherlock knew something big was brewing when the consulting criminal purposefully got himself caught and did not mount a defense. He anticipated Moriarty's visit to his flat. He knew it was time.

He did not know _how_.

But when the kidnapping occurred, it had to be _him_.

From then on, things escalated. The girl screaming, Donovan's assumption of Sherlock's guilt, the apperance of "Rich Brook".

Sherlock was being burned. Moriarty's plan was succeeding. Sherlock was losing.

Never before had he felt so - disarmed. He had always been able to retort, regain the upper hand, but Moriarty was the one in control now.

Yet, the worst part was not even feeling overpowered. No - the worst moment was when he thought, even for a second, that John doubted him. _If Moriarty got to John... _But he never did. John believed in him when he was arrested. John punched the chief superintendent who insulted Sherlock. John jumped in front of a bus with him.

When Sherlock realised what was coming up; what Moriarty had planned right from the beginning, he began again to take charge of his fate. Because this last thing, this final problem, he could and would prevent.

Within a few hours, he contacted Molly, Mycroft and his homeless network for help, setting a string of preparations in motion. Molly surprised him. Not only had she been observant that Sherlock was in trouble, but she was very efficient when he called upon her assistance. She never asked questions, just acted, and quickly. Recognising his previous misjudgement of her abilities, he respectfully gave her a moment of his full attention and said "thank you" before taking his leave.

...

_**Now...**_

They have been in the lab for nearly two hours. Enough time for Sherlock to think through everything again. And again. John has drifted off in a chair, weary with comtemplating how to destroy Moriarty's false identity. Not knowing that Sherlock's thoughts are otherwise occupied.

It's nearly time.

John's phone goes off, and he wakes up. Sherlock looks at him with a stoic expression, as the doctor answers. It's a short conversation.

Feigning ignorance, Sherlock asks, "What is it?"

"Paramedics. Mrs. Hudson's been shot".

"What? How?"

"Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract. Jesus. Jesus! She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go".

"You go, I'm busy".

As exptected, this puts John off. "Busy?"

"Thinking, I need to think".

"You need to... Doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her".

"She's my landlady", Sherlock states matter-of-factly.

"She's dying - you machine! Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want. On your own".

"Alone is what I have, alone protects me".

"No - friends protect people".

And with that, John leaves.

A second later, Sherlock receives a text. _I'm waiting... JM._

John cannot be involved in this. Sherlock knows that; has no doubt about the necessity of what he is about to do. It is this knowledge that provides him with some relief against the ache pressing on him. Sentiment weighs on you, causing irrational behavior. Reason is the source of calm and deliberate actions.

He gets up out of his chair. This is it.

...

Sherlock's heart beats a little faster as he makes his way to the rooftop where Moriary is waiting, as promised. A particular pop song greets him; he's heard it before by a swimming pool. _How appropriate._

"Here we are at last. You and me, Sherlock. And our problem, the final problem. Stayin' alive!".

Sherlock remains calm as his nemesis keeps talking. Moriarty then stands up and walks in circles around him. He is playing with him, and Sherlock goes along with it.

"Now shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building. Nice way to do it".

"Do it? Do - do what?" He fakes shock and surprise. For a second he wonders if Moriarty will call his bluff. "Yes, of course. My suicide".

Sherlock knows it has all lead up to this point. The fall. Standing on the ledge, slightly nervous, he looks down on the street below him. _Molly has taken care of everything, I'll land safely, Moriarty will walk away, not knowing what really happened..._

_... Something could go wrong..._ He sensed a nagging doubt.

_No, negative. It's all been planned in careful detail._

Then he realises something... and the next moment he is laughing. Moriarty is stunned. Sherlock walks back to him. This time, he is the one circling the criminal.

Moriarty has pre-arranged a way to get his men to stand down. He can call back the gunmen currently watching John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Sherlock doesn't need to jump to save them. The realisation is relieving. "I don't have to die - if I've got you", he sing-songs confidently.

His hopes are crushed when the insane criminal mastermind pulls a gun and shoots into his own mouth. Sherlock jumps away, gasping. What just happened? Blood is pooling from Moriarty's head. Shocked, Sherlock heaves for breath and half-turns back and forth, disoriented. His heart pounds.

...

There is no turning back now. He walks back to the ledge and steps onto it, just as a cab approaches on the street below. _John. _Sherlock knows even before his friend gets out of the cab. He pulls out his phone, still slightly shaking, but forcing himself to calm down. He needs to keep calm now.

John picks up as Sherlock sees him get out of the cab.

_"Hello"._

"John", he pants.

_"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"_ John is jogging towards the hospital.

Sherlock feels panic creeping in. "Turn around and walk back the way you came".

_"No, I'm coming in"._

"Just do as I ask! Please". His tone is urgent. John cannot - must not - come any closer. It works. John walks back. _Good. _Sherlock sighs in relief.

_"Where?"_

"Stop there!"

_"Sherlock..."_

Sherlock steadies his voice. "Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop".

From afar, John's face turns to him. _"Oh, God"._

He feels a sting.

"I-I.. I can't come down, so w-we'll just have to do it like this".

_"What's going on?"_

"An apology". Sherlock pauses, gathering his strength. "It's all true".

_"What?!"_

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty". He turns his head to the body behind him.

There's a pause. A miserable feeling washes over him.

_"Why are you saying this?" _John's words come out on a strained pitch.

Sherlock knows what he has to say. Unwillingly, his mouth twitches in pain, and he has to force out the words. "I'm a fake!" _I'm sorry, John_.

_"Sherlock..."_, his friend's voice pleads through the phone.

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson. And Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you - that I created Moriarty for my own purposes".

_"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met, the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"_

_Quick retort!_ his brain demands. "Nobody could be that clever".

John's reply comes immediately: _"You could"._

A strained laugh escapes Sherlock's lips. _John. Faithful, loyal John._ God, he doesn't want to do this! _You have to_, his mind demands again.

Absentmindedly, he registers a tickle running down his jaw, and a tear falls on his scarf. Sniffling, he deals John the hardest blow, "I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick, just a magic trick".

_"No, alright, stop it now!"_

Sherlock hears the desparation in John's voice, and sees him start to walk...

_No! _"No, stay exactly where you are! Don't move!" He raises his free hand as if to push him back.

John stops. _"Alright"._

Sherlock's head is spinning, as he looks down on his friend.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?" Sherlock pleads urgently.

_"Do what?"_

"This phone call, it's... it's my note". He swallows. "That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note".

An awful moment of silence occurs.

_"Leave a note, when?"_

A sea of thoughts and feelings wash over Sherlock in a flash.

He feels John's pain. He feels his own. _This is it. It's time._

_He will believe me to be dead._

_I won't see him again for a long time_.

Pain.

_Say the word!_

"Goodbye, John".

_"No. Don't"_, comes the short plea.

Sherlock just looks down at John, for a moment paralysed.

_Do it now._

He drops his arm, throws down the phone, heart beating wildly...

_"No - SHERLOCK!"_

... lifts his arms and leans forward.

He wriggles his arms and legs, wind hits him full force, colors and lines flash before his eyes, and it's all over within a few seconds.

...

_**Author's Notes: **_Well, I did say three chapters, but this story is not over yet. However, this chapter got long already, so there will be a fourth and final chapter.

I haven't yet read or heard a "fake suicide theory" without a seemingly big gap in it, and neither have I been able to come up with one, so naturally there are parts of this story that were difficult to write. Even regarding Sherlock's emotions, as they depend on his insight in Moriarty's plans. Could Sherlock have known in advance that there were snipers pointing their weapons at John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade? That's just one of my many questions.


	4. Goodbye

**Aftermath**

4. GOODBYE

All air is knocked out of him. Breathing is difficult. Noises sound like they are coming from far away.

After a few seconds he collects himself.

Then, quickly, every planned action is carried out. His mind methodically goes through them all, from being taken away from the scene of the crime in a rush, leaving behind John and a small crowd of spectators, to getting into a car at the pre-arranged pick-up location.

He looks over his shoulder as the car drives off_. _No one would be able to detect the flood of emotions that hits the calm and collected detective in this moment, but he catalogues them all.

_Relief._ He's alive and his plan worked.

_Melancholy._ He is leaving behind his home and his friends.

_Pain._

He hears John's voice in his head, the voice that screams his name. _"Sherlock!"_. Unwillingly, he groans at the image of his friend standing on the asphalt, looking at him as he leaps. Helplessly. His strong army doctor-friend.

Sherlock did not know he could feel so much hurt.

...

It's a long drive to the remote destination where he is to meet with his brother. Shifting in his seat, he puts his head in his hands and ruffles his hair. After a moment, he raises his head and releases a deep sigh.

_Emotions. _Apparently, he is not as above them as he would wish.

Wretched. He feels wretched.

_Stop it. I've just survived jumping off a building. Moriarty is dead..._

_Moriarty is dead. _It takes a few seconds for the truth to really sink in, but when it does, a new emotional flood hits him and fills him with a sense of mad joy. He has beaten the consulting criminal for good! For a moment, Sherlock had wondered if the plan would work. _Doesn't matter now_, he thinks happily. Incredibly, it had gone better - so much better - than planned. Moriarty is gone.

But then -

_John. He thinks I'm dead. They all think I'm dead; John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade..._

He sighs again and shakes his head. Better not to think about it.

His mind doesn't comply.

He can hear John's voice. His heartfelt pleas.

Then he hears his own voice as he is filling John with lies. Unspeakable lies.

_I had to_.

Something clicks in his mind. _The snipers! _His friends' lives might still be in danger. If Moriarty had lied... If either of his friends...

He has to get to his brother. Mycroft will know by the time he gets there. He might already know. If only he'd still had his phone!

Sherlock shuffles nervously. _Can't this car go any faster?_

"Could you hurry up, please?!"

...

Getting out of the car, he prepares himself mentally for possible bad news. Or he attempts to.

"John. Is he alright?" Sherlock urges his brother instantly as he strides past him into the old government building. For a moment he holds his breath.

"He is fine. They all are".

Breathing out. _Thank heavens._

He turns around to finally face Mycroft. They just stand there, looking at each other. The seconds pass. Neither of them speak. There is no trace of the usual arrogance between them.

The gravity of the recent events fills the air. It settles on them both.

A bit of nervous shuffling of Mycroft's feet, and they are brought out of their uncharacteristic trance. Sherlock walks over to a large window, and Mycroft turns to his desk.

"You need to keep full surveillance on them for another 24 hours", Sherlock presses solemnly, but not harshly, his eyes gazing out on the finely trimmed garden. Though no audible consent is given, Sherlock knows he can count on Mycroft passing on the instruction. Manipulative and calculating - _like me_, is the detective's thought - his brother could not always be trusted, but when it comes to Sherlock, the man has a soft spot.

From out of the corner of his right eye, he notices Mycroft sit down in his desk chair. Sherlock swallows. Outside it's beginning to drizzle. Absentmindedly he wonders if John got home, out of the rain.

_Home_.

The detective turns abruptly, face set in stone, and walks over to a comfortable armchair near the desk. He sinks into it. Looking straight ahead, he says, "I need the camera recordings from every building near the hospital and near Baker Street from where -"

"They are being brought here as we speak".

Sherlock pretends not to be surprised and pleased.

"There will have been a gunman at Scotland Yard as well".

Mycroft does not question him, just gives an affirmative nod which Sherlock understands immediately. _He will take care of it_.

"I'll need identity papers. A passport. And a disguise...". He drags out the last word, contemplating the best way to go undercover.

They continue discussing Sherlock's upcoming disappearance. It's all business as usual. They could have been talking about the latest murder mystery - were it not for the thick tension that's hanging in the air.

Because they both know what it all means, but they don't say it.

Sherlock is going to track down, hunt down, and have a number of Moriarty's collaborators arrested - possibly worse.

He will need to travel to heaven-knows-where for who-knows-how-long in order to complete his mission.

He will be in grave danger.

John won't be there to protect him. Mycroft can only help to some extent.

He will be alone.

...

"There is something else we need to discuss", Mycroft says gravely.

His lack of arrogance is unnerving to Sherlock.

The older brother continues, "In order to carry out this ruse, we need to -"

"- stage my funeral, of course".

Mycroft merely nods.

Something clenches around Sherlock's heart. Makes him feel trapped.

"Ms. Hooper has of course already provided the body".

Silence.

"I will have to be there".

"I'm sure you'll do an excellent job of pretense, brother", Sherlock snaps.

"Sherlock -"

The detective gets up. "Make the necessary arrangements". He walks out of the room without another word.

Pacing quickly down the corridor towards the room that will temporarily serve as his bedroom, the unbidden scenario offered by Mycroft is being played out in Sherlock's mind. There's a coffin containing a body. John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade are gathered at his tombstone. Grieving.

He shudders.

Entering his room, he closes the door behind him.

...

_**Author's Notes: **_There you have it; the final chapter of this story. As previously mentioned, I continue my post-Reichenbach story in 'He is Gone' for which I have now posted the first six chapters. I hope you'll check it out.

By the way; I have no idea if there is an old government building just outside London :-) I just needed it for my story.

Hope you enjoyed - Please leave a review.


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